Read The Song Before It Is Sung Online
Authors: Justin Cartwright
The Song Before It Is Sung (17 page)
It takes him twenty minutes to walk home. When he gets there he sees a brown Manila envelope propped up against his door.
He opens it cautiously, to find some printed papers with a note from a friend, Karin. He has forgotten that he asked her to
do a translation for him from German.
Dearest Conrad, I am so sorry this has taken me so long. I have been travelling. Hope it's not too late. You owe me one -
well, dinner, anyway. Love Karin.
He takes the manuscript up to the flat and places it on the bed. Then he showers in the unpredictable shower, which stands
in the corner of the bathroom, a cheap little construction they had planned to get rid of. The doors of the shower don't close
properly - they are of Perspex - and the water is barely warm. When he comes out of the shower he looks at himself closely
in the mirror. Since Emily - crazed, sexy, Emily - told him he was good-looking, he has taken to inspecting himself. What
he sees is that his hair is no longer vibrant. In fact it looks like von Gottberg's at his trial, resigned. As to whether
he is good-looking, he reserves judgement. He imagines a stranger looking at him and Francine silently eating sizzling prawns
and trying to decide who they are or what they stand for or what they do, he with his thinning hair and she with her Lenten
haircut. What would the verdict be? Two people who have taken a few knocks, certainly, but beyond that probably nothing remarkable:
he sees that they have joined the mass of Londoners, who have had the edges knocked off them and have adapted to the anonymity
that the city prefers; it's a wary city, not cynical, but without expectations.
He starts to read. Karin, it is soon clear, has taken the job seriously.
FOR MY CHILDREN AND THEIR CHILDREN,
A MEMOIR. LISELOTTE, GRÄFIN VON
GOTTBERG, JUNE, 1982
I MAY BE imagining it, but the sun was always shining that last spring and summer. In my memory every day was beautiful. Sunlight
fell silver on the lake soon after dawn and before you woke I would stand by the window in the music room - the best view
- looking across the water. The light reminded me of my parents' summer house on the island of Poel, a Baltic light, still
misty and indistinct in the early hours. It's the light of northern Europe, magical and mysterious. I always loved this view
of the lake, looking over the boat-house, the bathing hut and the tea-house, across to the village, the church and the windmill.
Your father was so busy that last year, those last terrible months. One day in May he telephoned to say that he had a few
days' leave and that an important visitor would be staying for the night. It was your second birthday, Angela, which he had
promised he would not miss. Knowing that he would enjoy driving in the dark-green shooting brake, I asked Wicht - do you remember
him? - to take it to the station. He harnessed the black and grey horses, Donner and Blitz, and put on his best cap, the one
he kept especially for your father and your grandfather before him. He raised his whip in salute to me and to your Aunt Adi
and trotted off towards the station. I wanted to go with them but we were preparing a welcome for your father as well as his
important guest. Also I knew that he would enjoy the ride back from the station and a chat with Wicht, the chance to breathe
in his beloved landscape, and revel in the sense of arriving back home [Karin has put a note here: She uses the word
Heimat,
which is of course for more evocative than 'home'], catching sight of the house just before the road dips and you are lost
in the trees for the final run to the park gates. There are certain places and certain sights in a life that raise one's spirits.
For forty years I have thought about this place every day. And I know that never a day went by without your father dreaming
about the lake and the house and the woods. He once said that as soon as he entered the avenue of oaks, planted by your great-grandfather,
he felt true peace. In fact I think he felt that peace as soon as he plunged into the lake, which was the first thing he usually
did, preferably naked.
It was nearly eleven when we heard the sound of the brake outside. Robert was in his sailor suit from Wertheim's and Angela,
you were in your best frock. Puppi, you were still in Grandma's christening robe, I'm afraid. Aunt Adi was holding you. When
they took the Jewish children away from the orphanage I burned the sailor suit. It was unbearable.
Suddenly there he was, so tall, so elegant in his grey suit, his hat pulled down and a brown travelling cape loosely over
his shoulders, looking every inch [
Zoll für Zoll —
not an exact translation, K] the diplomat. He jumped from the brake and ran towards us. Robert began to cry: it was all too
much for him. Dear Robert. Papi gathered us all in his arms.
'Swim, swim, let's swim,' he shouted. 'Wicht, bring the presents to the tea-room. Is tea laid?'
'Of course,' said Adi.
Your father and I pulled on our bathing suits. Babette held on to Robert and Angela, and your father carried Puppi into the
water. How he loved you children. The air was soon ringing with laughter. We played hide and seek, with me carrying you, Puppi,
and Robert and Angela stumbling around and trying to hide behind trees.
The tea was ready on the balcony in front of the tea-house. Although we had very little help now and supplies were short,
we had made a special effort. Wrapped in a towel, his body white as a sheet, his face tired, so tired, still your father sang
and told jokes and kissed you children. He was as gay and natural as ever, full of life and fun. I think it is true that this
was the quality he possessed above all else that nobody could resist: the life-force ran so strongly in him. He shouted, 'What
do we need for a harvest?' and you called out,
Rye, barley, wheat and oats, rye, barley and oats,
and then you sang one of your favourites,
I
went through a grass green wood!
He had brought small gifts for all of us from Wertheim's and Israel's, beautifully wrapped as only they could in those days.
Our friend, Wilfred Israel, had left the country before it was too late.
In the afternoon we had a small party for you, Angela, which you slept through. When you were all in bed your father said
to me, 'Our guest tonight is Claus Schenk von Stauffenberg.' I had met Stauffenberg the year before in Berlin where he was
regarded as a hero. At the time I thought he was a little naive and vain in the old style, with his Iron Cross First Class
and his cavalry uniform, but there was no denying his wonderful good looks.
'Don't be startled, he has lost an eye and a hand with Rommel in Tunisia since you last saw him. After we have given him something
to eat, he and I must talk.'
And I knew then that it couldn't be long now.
When von Stauffenberg arrived at about ten, driven by his chauffeur (who had once been a professional magician), he came forward
to greet me with so much charm and warmth that I was immediately won over. He had a black patch over his left eye, which increased
his already considerable presence. We ate together and he talked of Shakespeare and Stefan George and Holderlin. He seemed
not to have a care on his mind. He had such enormous charm, such confidence that I really believed the great work could not
fail. Your father and he had become very close friends. The right arm of his jacket was pinned to the pocket. The maids competed
to cut up his food for him. In the kitchen the chauffeur was baffling Cook with card tricks. Von Stauffenberg called him in
for our benefit. We, too, were baffled.
After dinner, although I longed to be alone with him, your father kissed me goodnight and said they would be talking very
late. In fact they talked all night. They were planning the composition of the new government that was to take over when Hitler
was killed, although I only discovered this much later. In the morning they swam and continued to talk in the tea-house and
it was here that Werner H, the forester, who was later executed by the Allies, spied on them and reported to the
Gauleiter
in Schwerin. Werner's father and his father before him had worked on the estate, but loyalty counted for nothing in the madness
of that time.
Von Stauffenberg did not come back into the house, but I saw him in the early dawn walking off to his car with your father
round the side of the stables past the estate manager's house. This house was unoccupied then because so many of our people
both from the estate and the village were at the front. I kept you children in the house until your father came in. We all
had breakfast together and then, just before he set off again for the station, your father said something that put a chill
on my heart: 'Whatever happens, you must always remember that you and the children have produced the greatest happiness I
could imagine or hope for. What we are doing, we are doing for our beloved country and for them. You must never forget that.
Particularly explain to Robert when he is able to understand. The time is coming.'
He looked so tired, so thin, that I wanted to beg him to stay and rest. He seemed too frail to be taking on the Third Reich.
Part of me still believed that Hitler was invincible. It was only later that I fully understood that after Stalingrad all
was delusion. And now the Allies were advancing across France.
I wanted to ask your father why he, especially, the father of three young children, had to do it, but I could not. Men, we
all understood, had to do their duty, and women were not supposed to question them, quaint though that sounds to you now.
We spent the next few weeks keeping ourselves busy. Your Aunt Adi was so wonderful. She had a new plan for every day, from
making toy theatres, collecting cornflowers to tie into circlets for your heads, or playing songs on her guitar to sing by
the lake. Often we took one of the carts for picnics by the small secret lake in a remote part of the forest, and sometimes
we would go over to our cousins at Schwerin and sail in their boats or take the ferry. And of course we swam. The water was,
in my memory, always wonderfully warm. And somehow Cook always managed to find enough flour and butter to make a
Baumkuchen.
On the 18th of July the stationmaster rang at about nine o'clock at night and he said that the Count had arrived on the Berlin
train. He had set out on foot. The stationmaster said that your father had asked that the children be woken up as he could
only stay until the early morning. I set off by car, while Babette got you out of bed. It was not completely dark, a warm,
northern evening. About two kilometres from the station I found him, Axel, your beloved father, striding down the road in
his suit without a tie. We embraced and he took the wheel. 'It's going to happen now,' he said. I knew what he meant, of course,
but none of the details in case the plan failed. He had left Berlin to see us, although he was needed day and night. 'But
I had to see you, just in case.' And what he meant was just in case the plan failed. There would be no mercy.
Back at the house a birthday table had been prepared and you were in your nightclothes in the hall by the big Swedish stove.
There was no electricity but the table looked beautiful, with the red candles in the silver candlesticks, which I saved from
Treskow. It was my birthday on the 20th and while I was on my way to find your father, Aunt Adi had prepared the table on
which she laid little gifts: she added the gifts your father had brought with him, new editions of books I had wanted from
Kiepert and some delicacies he had managed to get his hands on. I opened my presents: we sang, we perhaps shed a tear or two,
but we were very jolly, and then you children were taken back to bed and he came in to kiss you before we were finally alone
together, for the last time, in our room in the tower. He told me that he believed a new future for us and our country was
coming.
In the morning you children were waiting at breakfast. Immediately after breakfast your father and I climbed into the brake
and we waved goodbye to you, assembled with Aunt Adi and Babette on the front steps. We held hands all the way to the station:
we were young then. As we approached the station, your father asked me if I loved him. 'Of course, my darling, I love you
and I support you in everything you have to do.'
'It is only fifty-fifty, you know.'
He used the English phrase, 'fifty-fifty': at times he was happier speaking English than German. I think it reminded him of
his Oxford days and his Oxford friends, who were very dear to him. He made no secret of the fact that he had been in love
there and I felt no jealousy. He believed that if you had once loved someone, you should always maintain that love in some
way.
He jumped out of the brake, seized me in his arms, thin and frail though he was, and swung me down. He said goodbye to Wicht,
kissed one of the horses - 'I love their smell and the feel of their muzzles,' he said — and we ran hand in hand to the platform.
We embraced and he jumped into the train. As it pulled away, a dark cloud fell on my soul that has never completely lifted.
The 20th of July was my thirty-second birthday. What a terrible, terrible irony. By nightfall we knew that the Führer had
survived. In the morning we heard on the radio that a small clique of renegade officers, led by the traitor Claus Schenk von
Stauffenberg, had been executed. But we did not know what had happened to your father. We could obviously not ask anyone.
Your aunt made a wonderful show of keeping things as normal as possible, but she and I went up to my bedroom to listen to
the radio for news.
Conrad cannot sleep. He sees Axel von Gottberg desperate to hold his wife and his children for the last time. He sees the
tall, romantic figure striding through the fading light for home; he sees the intensity of that evening, the startled children
in their nightdresses, the poignant journey behind the horses back to the station and on to ruined Berlin, where the twilight
of the gods has descended. He sees Axel von Gottberg exactly as he is in the trial footage, tall, hollow-eyed, agonisingly
thin, but resolved.
And now, deeply moved by the memoir, Conrad wonders, as Liselotte did, how he could have done it. Was it courage or was it
a kind of delusion,
afolie de grandeur,
that he, Axel, Graf von Gottberg, was destined to save Germany alongside his grand friend, Claus Schenk, Graf von Stauffenberg?
But also Conrad sees the puzzled children, innocent, confused, their lives for ever blighted, the children of a traitor —
or a hero. He has met one of the daughters; the son Robert died of diphtheria a few months after the Gestapo took them away
to an orphanage in Bavaria in accordance with Hitler's policy
of Sippenhaft,
kindred seizure. The two girls stayed there, mute, until Christmas.
In those last days von Gottberg was gripped by a belief that, once von Stauffenberg had killed Hitler, he would be vital in
establishing Germany back in the civilised world: he might even be able to secure a government for Germany by decent Germans,
a government that would avoid humiliation and ruin and Soviet annexation.
There is only a paper-thin divide between idealism and delusion.